


Isla de las Munecas

by afterandalasia



Category: Original Work, Toy Story (Movies)
Genre: Abandonment, Body Horror, Community: sharp_teeth, Gen, Horror, Living Toys, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was the first of the dolls to guard the island, and she remembers it through all these years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isla de las Munecas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



> From [this prompt](http://sharp-teeth.livejournal.com/7756.html?thread=1487180#t1487180) on Sharp Teeth: Isla de las Munecas.
> 
> Isla de las Munecas, or Island of the Dolls, is an island off the coast of Mexico which is home to dozens of whole or partial dolls, in memory of a drowned child. The dolls have been left untended for years, and are as a result very creepy.
> 
> Apparently my brain did not think it was a creepy enough, however, as I went on to give it a Toy Story twist.

The past is dim and distant. She is sure that there was a time before this place, but she cannot remember it now. The bark of the tree is rough in the summer, slimy in the winter; the cord holding her to it is uncomfortable. One of her eyes went a long time ago; the other sees still, despite being scratched. If she could reach to brush the algae from her skin or tug away the leaves and roots that curl beneath her skin. They tickled at first, but after a while it turned painful, and when she cried at night there was no-one to hear.  
  
It had only been her at first. She watched the canal flow by, the trees become green and brown in turns. The man who placed her there had asked her to watch for the child, to make sure that the child was not alone, and so she waited. If ever the child would need her, she would be there.  
  
It didn't trouble her until the others began to arrive.  
  
They couldn't speak as clearly as her; they sobbed and cried, and called for their mamas although their mamas were far away from here. Most were naked; a few still had scraps of fabric clinging to them. The worst were the heads, by themselves, eyes blinking and mouths moving but no sound coming from them, just wordless movements over and over.  
  
That's when the tendrils start to grow, leaves brushing over her. Spiders and millipedes walk across her with movements like raindrops; at first she can move to brush them away, but then the roots of the plants start to tie her in place and she cannot move them any more.  
  
When it rains, it is cold. Some of the others cry. They do not understand; perhaps she does not either, but she tries.  
  
There are no children here. They are never touched, never held. The only human that comes past is the man, always with more dolls, or more pieces of them, to hang in the trees. Each time she sees him, he looks older, more haggard, more wild in the eyes. She tries not to think of what stories he might have in his mind, when his eyes are like that. Perhaps this is the story.  
  
After a while he stops coming. She wonders if it is because the trees are full, or because...  
  
She tries not to think why _because_.  
  
Time waxed and waned. The trees and the plants began to take them, wrap around them. Many of them stopped crying after a while, or speaking, their eyes becoming glassy as they lose whatever spark held them.  
  
Still she endures, tied where the birds cannot reach her, the ground cannot swallow her. She cannot sleep like the others do.  
  
They see him one last time; he lies face-down in the water and drifts, slowly, by them. His skin has gone waxy and white, and his hair grey. She recognises him from the clothes, and from his hands.  
  
For many years, no-one comes. They grow tired, and faint. More fall silent. Sometimes she calls out to see if someone will answer, but they never do. Over time, even she can do nothing more but whisper.  
  
When people finally come, it is to stare. They do not even dare to touch them.  
  
She aches for the warmth of human hands again.  
  
Humans are not supposed to know that they are alive, but they cannot help it now. They whisper desperately to be taken down from their makeshift gallows. There is no strength for more. The humans squeal and point; their cameras click. They do not realise that the whispers are real.  
  
_Hold me. Help me. Save me._  
  
Night falls, the humans leave again. From somewhere in the forest, some of them start to cry.


End file.
